After complaining of too much time spent at my desk sitting in front of my computer, a friend advised, “You need a massage.”

I knew this was true although it felt more complicated.

I wanted a good massage, a good experience. It had probably been about 2 years since I last paid a professional to knead my flesh and although I’ve often found it hard to spend money on myself, I didn’t want to take a chance finding a masseuse through a massage school or by cashing in a Groupon.

I also knew that I didn’t want to deal with driving to a practitioner who would put me in a very relaxed state only to lose it in the course of driving back home.

My mind started to run a montage of images of storefronts I’d pass in the course of conducting errands on foot. Was there someplace in my neighborhood?

Then I thought about Bloom, the yoga studio I visited many Monday mornings for Gentle Yoga with Karen until I got busy with work projects.

I seemed to recall they had a massage room. I barely peaked in. It had all the necessary elements; darkly colored walls, a massage table, a small boom box, a stool, a couple candles and pump bottles of oils.

I checked their website (they had pretty extensive options for massage) and chose a therapist from among five bios. Considering that I might not want to leave the room right away, I booked the last appointment on Thursday evening.

The therapist asked me all the usual questions. What did I want her to focus on? Was I experiencing pain? I explained that I spent too much time at my desk and, almost apologetically, went on to admit not moving my body enough lately.

She was serious about her work. She took a few moments to get grounded before oiling up her hands. She checked in with me periodically on the pressure of her touch.

When on my back, she was ready to place pillows under my knees and, when lying on my stomach, she adjusted the headrest. Sort of ambient sounds, like chimes, played quietly in the background.

Ahhhh.

A little slip of a thing, barely a hundred pounds, I wondered how she was able to work on much larger bodies. While she spent most of our time on my lower back and hips, she also took a few minutes to hold my skull in one hand and then let it drop into her other hand. She massaged my hands and slowly manipulated her fingers between my toes.

It was great to feel the knots in my back untangle and my whole body elongate under her long strokes, but I almost liked the small attentions best of all. I probably don’t give much thought to the spaces between my fingers and toes. I felt much more alive when every part of my body felt open.

After dressing, she asked me if I had any questions. I explained the predicament of someone who sits at a desk at a computer all day.

“If you can’t get up and walk,” she said. “Periodically, just breathe consciously. Take a couple deep breaths. Let in all the air you can on the in-breath. Let it out slowly. Just when you think you’ve let out all the air in your lungs, if you’re really tuned in, you’ll find you can squeeze out more. Let it all out.”

Discovering a retreat for rejuvenating bodywork that’s only six blocks away, remembering to feel into the spaces between my fingers, and knowing that on any exhale, there’s always more air that can be let go are all great reminders to value hidden spaces.

Knowing that what you need might be hidden – in plain sight – begging only your conscious awareness is no small thing.